I could sit here all day and tell you about how I was born premature and given thirty days to live.
I could also tell you about how I lost my religion.
However, that's not what this story is about...
I was eleven years old when I had my first panic attack, this followed moving to a new town.
I was in my mother's room, and I had this terrifying feeling that I was going to die.
My heart was racing, I was shaking yet I was burning hot to the touch, and I felt nauseous.
She told me that I was having a panic attack, something new to me but she had been dealing with all her life.
Now here I am, at eighteen years old, wishing it would go back to the way it was before.
I no longer have panic attacks, not in the previous form anyway.
Let me just explain it like this...
I am not shy.
I would love nothing more than to sit down and have a conversation with someone.
I would love to be able to smile and laugh with you.
I am not rude.
I am one of the nicest people you will ever meet, I would give you the shirt off my back.
I try to project that outwardly but you can't manage to see it.
I don't mean to break eye contact with you with you and trust me there is nothing interesting about my black converse sneakers.
I have to keep painting my finger nails because if I dont, I will bite them.
I don't mean to pull my phone out at inappropriate times, but it's my crutch.
My "little helper" is Zofran, a small pill to help prevent nausea.
I can't be in a relationship. Just a boy sending me a text is enough to make me vomit.
I cannot answer a telephone call.
I am forever ashamed of myself for a disorder that I can't control.
My greatest wish, is that I would die.
That would be the greatest relief.
Please, set me free.